Chara
by Jazz Kaufmann
Summary: Frisk's adventures in Undertale, narrated from Chara's POV. Female Chara, Male Frisk. Update schedule uncertain: I'm juggling two stories right now, but I have plans on how to cover both the Pacifist and Genocide stories. Reviews more than welcome! MORE CHAPTERS TO COME.
1. Cooked Apricots and Hot Iron

1

I don't think this can be called a happy story.

In fact, this is a rather frightening story. It's about a little boy named Frisk, who fell down a hole into a world of monsters.

Not the goat-people or fish-people or lizard-people, mind you. Those weren't really monsters. Not even the horned king, who hid in the shadows, waiting for children's souls to steal; he could be called many things, but compared to what _I've_ seen, it would be wrong to call even him a "monster".

Not even the vicious spider-lady could be called a monster: she was just a businesswoman.

Not even the good doctor was a monster. He was a fine fellow, I think.

There were only three, _true_ monsters in that magic underground:

1\. A talking flower

2\. A comic skeleton

3\. Me

2

My body was buried three feet under a bed of sweet, golden flowers. The poor goats didn't know what to do with me: when one of _theirs_ dies, the body skips the whole rotting part and turns straight to dust. Then they scatter the dust on the person's favorite thing, and that's their grave. But they didn't know what to do with me, when I died. I'm not one of their kind; I wouldn't turn to dust. My body was just lying there. They thought for sure I was asleep - in some magical, deep sleep - but my soul wasn't there anymore, and I was so cold, and then I started smelling.

It was pretty funny. I watched it all from overhead, a ghost, adrift like an empty plastic bag in the wind. I couldn't help but laugh. My body was just lying there and they couldn't figure out what to do with it.

Ha ha.

They tried embalming me, first. But they didn't realize it doesn't work perfectly on humans, and my face still kept rotting, until the eyes started melting and my mouth just kept widening into this big old smile, ha, ha. Like I was still laughing at them, ha, ha.

Goat-mom knew I loved those sweet, golden flowers. So she buried me under a whole bed of them. And my ghost was tired and cold and sad and angry and everything was wrong, so very wrong. Everything had gone so terribly, terribly wrong…I sank down into the flower bed and tried to remember what the petals felt like.

3

You scared yet?

You should be.

I know I am.

4

Alright, I'll admit, this story has a happy _ending_. But that doesn't make it a happy story. I don't think most stories are particularly happy, which is why we tell them. When things are happy, there's not much to say. One is too busy enjoying it.

I have a lot of stories to tell.

This one is about the boy called Frisk.

5

I had fallen asleep on the flower bed. I had been there for a long time. Being out of my body left me aching something terrible. Every inch of me began aching, as if hungry for rest, but I was already at rest. Aching for _something_. So I lay down in the flowers and tried to fall asleep, so that maybe I could gain some respite.

After a few years, I finally did. I went into a deep, deep slumber. Like from the fairy tales, ha, ha. A sleeping princess, ha, ha, waiting for her prince, ha, ha.

Well, I'll give myself a break; maybe something more useful than a princess: a sword in a stone, waiting for the rightful king to come and draw me out.

Or maybe a cursed artifact; you should just put it back where you found it.

6

There were other children before Frisk, but they didn't wake me; hence my clever sword analogy.

I remember feeling the faint thump of their bodies, falling from way up above, down through the magic hole into the magic underground, onto a magical bed of golden flowers that broke their fall. I would take a look at them and at the color of their soul, but then I would simply roll over and go back to sleep, because my ghostly bones would start aching again and I hated it.

There was a turquoise girl, with a ribbon in her hair and a toy knife, ha, ha. I knew it wasn't real by just looking at it. It was some dumb, plastic thing for little kids. Her soul smelled like wet rocks and young saplings in morning dew.

There was the orange souled boy, who was very proud of his boyishness, because he dressed like a little bruiser, ha, ha, with fighter gloves and a bandana around his forehead. His soul stank of bonfire smoke and barbecue.

There was the deep, water blue girl: she was elegant like a dancer. I would have liked her if she didn't have that dumb looking tutu on. I could hardly smell _her_ soul: it was a subtle scent of sleeping snow under a perfectly blue sky. It reminded me of my few good days at home.

A purple boy, with dirty glasses and a notebook and looking all thoughtful and quiet. Soul smelled like used books and soap.

The green girl, whose skin smelled like meat and cooked eggs and spices, but whose soul smelled of mint leaves and hot tea. She was dressed up like a chef and carried a cast iron frying pan everywhere.

And the yellow boy who looked like he walked out of a Halloween party, ha, ha, 'cause he was dressed up like a cowboy: he had the whole getup, even a real gun. His soul smelled like metal and pungent saltwater.

And then there was Frisk.

Frisk's soul was the same color as mine.

7

He had a bandage and a stick. The bandage was on his left hand, and the stick was in his right. It was a thin branch from off a young tree: thin, tough, and kind of grubby; a lot like Frisk.

Frisk was probably about ten. He was a scrawny thing, in a button down shirt, covered with a blue and red-stripped sweater, and jeans, and white tennis shoes. It was all dirty and weather-beaten and smelled a little bit. As for Frisk, he had a weird head and face. It was a bit squashed and round, but still angular and bony. His mousy hair was long and shaggy, reaching down just past his jaw. His nose was flattish, and his eyes were large, wide, and clouded with milky white cataracts; so he had the habit of looking down at nothing, while he cocked his large, embarrassing ears and poked around himself with his stick.

His expression was one of cosmic indifference. This may have just been because his eyes didn't work, though. I figured he fell down the hole by accident, ha, ha.

That's when I realized: I wasn't aching anymore.

Every other child had gained nothing from me but a silent, bleary eyed glare for disturbing my slumber and bringing back the pain.

But this one…

Our souls are both a deep, bright red, the color of fresh, pure blood. And they both smell like cooked apricots and hot iron: sweet and tangy and harsh and bitter. It's a cycle between those four tastes; I had never appreciated the dynamic to my own soul's smell until Frisk crashed onto my bed of flowers and stank up the whole place. And that _smell_ …it cleared out my ghost blood like mint clears the sinuses. It fed my nonexistent stomach with water and bread and a bit of chocolate. It lent me a bit more form, a bit more weight, a bit more life. A bit more _determination_.

8

While he was brushing himself off and rubbing his bruises, I spoke for the first time in many years:

"Greetings," I said, a little facetiously. Nevertheless, the boy was extremely startled, jumping a little into the air and swinging the stick around like a baseball bat. It would have smacked me full in the face if I weren't an insubstantial ghost.

"I can hear you," he complained. "I hear your breathing. And I can smell you."

Oh? Now _that_ was interesting. "Sorry to frighten you," I said. "You just woke me up from a very deep slumber, so I was a little startled, too."

I silently stuck my hand out to see if he'd shake it. He didn't: I had an advantage.

Meanwhile, despite his eye's lack of emotion, the rest of his face became very guarded. "Don't assume I was startled," he said.

"But you were," I replied.

"Yeah, but don't _assume_ it," he insisted. "I'll let you know if I was startled, not you. Where are you?"

"Didn't you say you could hear my breathing?" I asked.

"Yeah, yeah…that's right. I was testing you."

"No you weren't. You were bluffing."

He made a deep frown for a moment, but then returned to indifference and shrugged. "Fine. Be that way. And I'll be off _this_ way."

There was a certain thoughtful intelligence to his voice, something that clashed with his youthful appearance. I had the distinct impression that he was actively deliberating with every moment to act older than he was. This had me all the more intrigued, even attracted.

"Hold up," I said, my ghost drifting past him. "I haven't even introduced myself yet, or told you where you are, for that matter."

"I know exactly where I am."

"I really don't think you do."

"I told you, I'll be the judge of that. Now just leave me alone."

I let my arms sag despondently in the air as I watched him tap, tap, tap his way around the little cavern we were in. Bored, I gazed about myself: it was about the same as I remembered. The moss and fungi had shifted, but otherwise, it was still like a hollowed out pumpkin turned to stone, the walls covered with mosses, the floor planted with strange grasses and the yellow flowers. From above, there shown a beam of nearly blinding light, filled with faerie dust mites that wove their way back and forth across it. It reached down from a mysterious hole in the cavern ceiling. That hole was how I got down to the underground. It was how anything ever got down here. But it would never be, _could_ ever be, the means for anything to get _out_ of here.

I had half a mind to just go back to sleep, but the fact remained, however foreign to my experience thus far, that this particular child was apparently responsible for the complete cessation of my eternal pain. The smell of hot iron…the smell of apricots…such a strange and distinct combination I had only ever gotten from myself when I paid enough attention.

This was _quite_ interesting. It had to be understood.

"How long are you going to tap around before you ask for help?" I asked.

He didn't answer: he was ignoring me. I drifted over to him and tried sticking my arm through the back of his head, to see if he could feel it. He perked up a little, like a poked raccoon, but said nothing.

"Hi," I said in his ear. I swear he leapt three feet in the air, ha, ha.

"How'd you get right there?!" he demanded.

"I have my ways."

He frowned deeply again. "You don't make any sound at _all_."

"Not a peep."

"Not even breathing, when you're an inch from my ear?"

"You want my help, or not?"

He cocked his head towards the ground in thought.

"Here, I'll give you a sample," I offered. "You are in a cavern right now. You had quite a fall."

"A cavern?" he said, perking up again. "With grass and flowers?"

"It's a _magical_ cavern."

"Hmph," he mumbled. "And how do you get out of this _magical_ cavern?"

A capitulation. I was winning, and I grinned. "Not the way you came, that's for sure."

He blew a stray strand of hair from his face. His white eyes happened to lock with mine for a moment or two as he did so. "So there's another way?" he asked.

"Sure enough. Just follow my voice: I'll lead you."

9

"You have a name?" I asked him.

"Frisk," he said, almost immediately, and rather defiantly.

"Is that your _real_ name?"

"As far as _I'm_ concerned. Is yours any better?"

I'll admit, I hesitated. This was a strategic moment.

"Chara," I answered.

To this day, I still don't know why I told the truth.

Maybe by the end of this story, we'll know together.


	2. Friendliness Pellets

**_(No subtle way to say this: when Frisk mentions Chara's name, Flowey doesn't recognize the name. This is intentional, and will make sense later in the story. I originally wasn't going to say anything, but I didn't want anyone thinking that I didn't know what I was doing.)_**

 ** _Cheers! Enjoy!_**

1

You have no idea what it was like being dead.

Don't you dare, dear reader. Don't you dare presume that a few lines of description from me give you the right to empathize. I could have been lying, just to satisfy you, so you wouldn't ask me.

Maybe if you cut off your arms and legs, and stuffed the wounds with salt and alcohol, and every time a tear escaped from the edge of your eyes you were rapped across your back with a leather belt, then maybe you could do a better job _pretending_ to know what I felt like, why I tried to smother myself in sleep, wondering why I wasn't gone yet, why I was still tied down to this stupid, idiotic, absurdly cruel world -

…

Ha, ha, ha -

Don't look so serious. I'm just messing with you.

You should have seen your face. It was hilarious. Ha, ha.

2

What was I talking about?

Oh yes: Frisk. Frisk's soul had awakened me from that awful ache of death.

At first, I was so confused. The plan had failed, hadn't it? This was some unforeseen, awful side effect, wasn't it? How did Frisk bring me back? What was happening? What was I not understanding?

But whenever the universe is being cruel and confusing like this, I like to smile. Just as broad and spitefully as I can. It never likes that: it wants to hear me cry. So I laugh instead. I can see the psychological collapse in their eyes.

I'm a tenacious little cretin.

3

"So, wait," Frisk was saying, as he followed my humming down a cavern corridor. "You're some kind of _ghost_? For real?"

"For realsies, Frisky."

"Don't call me that. So you're one of the old monsters? From the old stories? There's an _actual_ magic hole in Mount Ebott?"

"Sure enough, Frisky," I said, and felt Frisk's stick pass through my head. "You stumbled down it. Fortunately for you, those flowers broke your fall. What were you doing on the mountain, anyway? Seems dangerous for someone in your condition."

"You're a jerk, you know that?" Frisk mumbled.

"What of it? Don't change the subject."

"I'm not telling _you_ anything," Frisk snapped. "And you know what? I don't need you bothering me. Go away. I've got nowhere to be; I'll find my way around like I always do."

I watched as he tapped his way past me, one hand in his pocket, looking grumpier than a hungry bull.

"Even in a magic underground?" I called after him.

" _Especially_!" he insisted.

After a moment or two, I began floating along behind him, silent as the grave, ha, ha.

"I know you're following me," he said aloud. "You're waiting to sneak up on me again."

 _Smart kid,_ I thought, grinning. _I like 'im_.

The corridor suddenly opened up into a bulging pocket. The air glowed with bioluminescent fungi and a single torch chained from the center ceiling, like a one-candle chandelier.

I remembered it all so well, even then.

I watched with ever increasing intrigue as the blind boy tapped his way into the open chamber, sniffed at the air, cocked his ears, found the walls, and began to formulate the space around him.

It was clever, but it was also remarkably boring.

"The corridor," I narrated, "suddenly opens up into a bulging pocket. The air glows with bioluminescent fungi and a single torch is chained from the center ceiling, like a one-candle chandelier."

He replied, "I already figured that out."

"You didn't know about the fungi and the torch," I challenged. He didn't respond, but continued forward into the center of the cave, where there was magic grass and moss growing thickly on a pitcher's mound, crowned by a single, palm-sized yellow flower.

I hadn't noticed it when we came in; how odd.

And I began to discern…how very odd…something like a _face_ in its pollen corolla.

Then it began talking.

4

"Howdy!" it said. "I'm Flowey. Flowey the Flower!"

It was a six-inch tall growth, with six proud, floppy petals and a pollen-heavy lump of a center where its face presented itself, beaming, to the world. The flower was yellow, and its tender, curvy stalk was unabashedly green. The face, although it clearly arose out of the pollen, yet didn't seem like it was made of the pollen: it was something else, something distinct, almost as though the face was drawn onto the flower and then magically animated. It had the broadest and brightest smile ever advertised. Its eyes were large and innocent, and the mouth had perfectly white, twinkling teeth. And from that mouth emitted the enthusiastic voice of a family-friendly radio announcer.

Said voice, of course, made Frisk jump again. He brandished his stick like a sword.

"Hmm…" pondered the flower, "You're new to the underground, aren'tcha?"

I watched as Frisk slowly lowered his stick, his big ears cocked to listen. "Did you say you're a flower?"

"That's right, kid! Why? Don't I look like a flower?"

"Don't I look like I'm _blind_?"

"Oh my!" the flower exclaimed, bobbing up and down on its stalk. "I had no idea! Golly, you must be so confused…Someone ought to teach you how things work around here!"

Frisk frowned. "I don't need any help. Thank you."

But the flower wasn't finished: "I guess little old me will have to do. Ready?"

"I said I don't need any help -"

"Here we go!"

5

This, dear reader, is where things became _particularly_ unusual for me, as well as for Frisk.

Frisk, of course, was mostly confused by the rough triple pounding of his soul, a brief scale of a garbled flute, and that sudden, remarkable feeling of vulnerability that comes from being challenged to a battle in the underground. There are rules, you see: magical rules put in place when the "monsters" were first trapped down here. Rules for selling, buying, talking, but most especially _fighting_. They take some getting used to:

1\. Only two parties to a fight.

2\. No more than three members in a party.

3\. The amount of effort expended by all involved members must be equal. The _effectiveness_ of that effort does not need to be equal.

4\. In a fight, all actions are classified as Fight, Act, Item, or Mercy.

5\. While engagement in a fight may be _initiated_ without consent, either party may choose, as part of their allotted effort, _via_ Mercy, to Run Away with no consequences.

Or, if you're stupid, you can just stand there and take it. That's called "Spare".

6\. Parties must be formed before battle is initiated; otherwise, the individual members will be engaged alone.

Did you catch that last rule?

That's important.

Because I never agreed to be in Frisk's party.

So why, dear reader, was I dragged into battle with him?

6

"See that heart?" said Flowey cheerfully. "That's your SOUL, the very culmination of your being!"

" _No_ I can't see it! I'm _blind_!" Frisk complained. But everyone knew that Frisk didn't _need_ to see it; he could feel it, that little metaphysical miracle, turned into a deep, bloody-red glowing heart floating in front of his chest. His hands had instinctively reached up to protect it like it was a firefly.

"Chara, are you still floating around?" Frisk called out. I didn't answer.

"Who's Chara?" asked the talking flower.

"None of your business."

"There's no need to be so scared," offered the flower. "Your SOUL starts off weak, but can grow strong if you gain a lot of LV!"

Frisk perked up, but retained his scowl.

"What do you mean my SOUL is weak?" he demanded, though somewhat half-heartedly.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of!" Flowey explained, bobbing from side to side, a big stupid smile on its face. "Everybody starts off weak down here - just one measly little LV point - but with experience, that little old point will get some friends! And you'll get stronger than you can even imagine!"

Frisk tapped the ground with his stick. "What's LV stand for?"

"Why, LOVE, of course!"

"Of course."

"You want some LOVE, don't you?"

"No."

"Don't worry," cried the flower happily. "I'll share some with you!"

"I said 'no', you dumb…" Frisk stopped himself, then continued, "you flower."

This was to no avail against the happy yellow flower, who looked like they could tear themselves up from the ground and start dancing and twirling for joy on their limp roots. This did not happen, of course: instead, the flower made a stupid face with a wink and a bit of tongue sticking out, and from behind it, twinkling shyly, leered a little starry droplet. It persisted for a few moments in the air, then faded like smoke.

"Down here," explained the flower, "LOVE is shared through…" it paused for a moment, as though trying to remember something, "little white…'friendliness pellets'. But, y'know," and it paused for another second. "I can tell you're a little scared."

Frisk was frowning deeply, and looked like he was trying to push his soul back into his chest. "I'm not scared! I'm just not ready to trust a talking flower I just met."

"And most of the time, you'd be right!" said Flowey, chipper as ever. "But I also know that these pellets will help you get stronger! The truth is, kid, there's a lot of bad things down here, and I couldn't forgive myself if I let you go off without some protection." Frisk was looking down, but his ears were cocked at attention. Flowey continued, "Alright, alright: it can hurt just a tiny bit…I understand if you're scared."

"I'm not scared!" Frisk insisted angrily. "And I'm not afraid of getting hurt, neither! You think you're so tough? Lay it on me, weirdo! I won't flinch!"

I saw the flower make a sly smile, as five more friendliness pellets appeared behind it.

7

 _That conniving little marigold,_ I was thinking. _What's it driving at? Those pellets won't hurt more than bee-stings._ And although I was in support of Frisk learning by experience, I realized this would not get me any closer to understanding him. So instead I planned to share the truth with him, so that he could run away from the battle.

But there was no Mercy.

Or Fight.

Or Item or Act.

Just Flowey the flower.

"Are you ready?" it said with glee, the little droplets drawing near. "Move around! Get as many as you can!"

8

I didn't say anything.

It wouldn't have mattered, of course; Frisk couldn't run away and I didn't know what was going on. But somehow that memory still hurts. I didn't even _try_.

9

The pellets all targeted Frisk's soul, and slammed into it with disproportionate power. They dissipated with the blow, which knocked Frisk backwards several feet, onto the ground, nearly dropping the heart. Some blood came out of his little childish nose.

Flowey the flower was grinning wildly. The face was now full of shadow and sharpness; its mouth was wide as a gulper eel and crowded with knife-like teeth.

"You idiot," it growled maliciously. It sounded like distorted static on the radio. "In this world, it's kill or _be_ killed."

The blood from Frisk's nose had drooled out onto the ground. I couldn't tell what he was expressing because his eyes couldn't move, and the rest of him was exhausted. With half-dead hands he still clutched at his blood-red soul and held the instantly familiar artifact close to his still-warm heart.

I still didn't say a word. I could not think of what to say. I could not think of what to think. Nothing like this beast had ever lived in the underground…not since…

"Why would _anyone_ pass up an opportunity like this?!" the flower crowed through its barred jack o' lantern teeth.

 _Oh…oh no…_ I was feeling the ache…I was feeling that awful ache again…

"Chara," said Frisk to the open air, "I think…I could use…your help now…" Little crooked lines, like varicose veins, were starting to run up along Frisk's little glowing heart.

 _Oh no...oh no oh no oh no…not again not again…_

Flowey the flower had nearly closed its lips, the tips of which were now level with Flowey's eyes, eyes as black and pitiless as the shadow on the moon. A hundred little glowing diamonds appeared in a circle around Frisk, ready to sweep down onto him like flies to a rotting carcass.

"Die," Flowey said.

And as the little glittering diamonds closed in on Frisk, Flowey began to laugh with sinister jollity.

But suddenly, another strange thing happened. A ball of blue fire appeared, and whirling like a comet, struck the little plot of earth where Flowey sprouted. I could not see what happened, but when the fire burned up, there was no sign of Flowey, and his pellets evaporated into a ring of white smoke wavering away from the now quivering Frisk.

Across the cavern room, through a Grecian pillared gateway: there appeared a goat woman, standing on two, two-toed legs, her body wrapped in a long, purple shift, with the Royal Family crest embroidered across her motherly chest. She had short, thick, sharp-tipped horns on the top of her head, and great, long, downy ears framing her face, and her whole body covered in wintery white fur. She looked ferocious, eyes narrowed to violently wrinkled slits, a little bit of mouth barring equestrian molars, and holding another blue, flickering fireball in a pale, padded paw.

It was my mother.


	3. Friendly Conversation

_Author's Note: In case anyone's wondering, I am filled with determination to finish this thing. It just might take a while._

1

My mother's face softened.

"What a terrible creature," she whispered to herself as she approached Frisk, "torturing such a poor, innocent youth…"

The rules of battle were still in play: Frisk's soul was still naked and vulnerable, and he compulsively clutched it even closer to his chest as he heard the goat lady approaching. She knelt down softly near Frisk, her furry mouth breaking into a warm smile.

"Ah, do not be afraid, my child," she said. "I am Toriel, caretaker of the Ruins." She gestured grandly around herself at the cavern walls. She had not realized Frisk was blind yet. "I pass through this place every day to see if anyone has fallen down. You are the first human to come here in a long time."

Frisk's face started to relax from the warmth of my mother's voice. I knew the feeling.

"Come, child," she whispered, carefully reaching under Frisk to lift him and his soul up like a baby. Some of his nosebleed stained her shift. "I will take you through the catacombs."

Battle mode ended. Frisk's soul returned to his chest, soaking back through his clothing, leaving deep bloodstains for a few moments before those too disappeared. The feeling of the rules went with it. They were just in a regular cavern now. Just Frisk and Toriel.

And me.

2

I followed them, drifting slowly along behind. We walked through long uncalibrated puzzles and traps, up crumbling staircases and through eroding doorways. We arrived at the old vacation house. She took Frisk into my old bedroom. I recognized nearly everything. It was like nothing had changed. It was like I'd slept for but a day or two. Toriel was always a preservationist. She liked to keep things clean and comfortable and the same. It was boring then and just unsettling now.

She was tucking Frisk into my bed. It was the very bed I'd slept in, my first night in the underground.

I screamed and tried to smash the lampstand in the corner. It didn't work: my hands passed through it, as though I weren't really there. _As though I weren't really there_ …but _Frisk_ heard me, and started up from the bed, frightened, and tried to run, but Toriel hugged him closely and whispered that it was all okay, that it was all over now, that nothing was going to hurt him ever again, that he needed to rest to bring strength back to his little wounded soul. I screamed again and tried to pound the walls but I couldn't touch anything. And I was crying Frisk didn't like that not one bit he kept on what was I talking about?

Ha ha.

3

I floated around the ruined city for a while. Anywhere was better than that house and Toriel's stupid face.

It's funny; there wasn't a drop of joy to get from it all. Things are unbearably boring. Even that talking flower was boring to me, which probably sounds remarkable to you, but not to me. I've seen talking frogs and fish women and what have you. And it's _all_ boring. Everything is boring. Everything gets boring if you give it enough time. Everything just settles down into a dusty boringness in a last ditch effort to be different and interesting. That's what death is: trying something different, just because life is so boring. But then even death gets boring, and you can't go back.

Boring, boring, boring.

But I knew that things weren't quite so boring when you had someone to show them to.

4

Frisk took an insufferable amount of time to wake up. Like, a whole freaking day. I was just waiting with my arms folded and my fingers tapping for a good twelve hours before he started rousing. I suppose I could have screamed again, but I had gotten a bead on Frisk: he was a spirited little thing and I knew he would become even less pliable if I pushed him openly. So I waited. There wasn't anything else I felt like doing.

"You awake, yet?" I asked, after he'd sat up and stretched. Oddly enough, he didn't jump at my voice; he even seemed to expect it.

"How long have you been waiting in here?" he asked.

"Too long," I said.

"Was that you screaming?"

"Yeah. What of it?"

He twitched his nose back and forth, as though tasting something in his mouth. "You know, you're kinda creepy."

"Your face is creepy," I said.

He scowled. "You weren't a lick of help when I was fighting that mad flower."

"There wasn't anything I could do. I didn't know what that flower was and I still don't know."

"You didn't know what 'friendliness pellets' are, either?" he asked, a little irritated.

"I didn't think they'd do _that_ much damage to you," I replied matter-of-factly.

Frisk scowled, then looked indifferent, then snuggled himself back under the covers and rolled over. "Go away. I'm trying to wake up."

"Don't you dare! I've been waiting _patiently_ for you to wake up -"

"Why?!"

"So I can have someone to play with," I said, and then, as sweetly as I could muster, "Let's go exploring."

"Are you serious?"

"If you could see I'd show you my serious face," I said. "Look, I'm bored out of my mind, Frisk. Let's go exploring."

"No," he answered.

"Why not?"

"Because you're a jerk and creepy and you almost got me _killed_."

"Only one of those things could be my fault," I protested.

Frisk sat up, stock straight.

"Ms. Toriel's coming," he said.

"What? How do you know -" but then I heard her footsteps too as they halted just outside the door. Frisk really _did_ have good hearing.

The door opened and mother entered, smiling.

"Child?" she called.

"Yes, Miss Toriel?" Frisk answered.

"Are you afraid of me, child?" mother asked sincerely. She had not entered the room yet.

Frisk shook his head. "I'm not afraid of anything, miss."

Mother: "Do you know that I am not a human, like you?"

Frisk nodded, maintaining his look of indifference. "I don't care, s'long as you're nice to me."

Mother smiled. "May I come in, then?"

"Of course, Miss Toriel. This is your house, after all."

She came in and sat on the end of my bed, giving Frisk that warm, warm smile.

"How do you feel? You had a very nasty tussle with that monstrous creature."

"I feel very well now, actually," Frisk answered politely. "Thank you."

Toriel nodded. "May I ask where you came from, my child?"

Frisk hesitated. "From the surface. Just a…little town. I don't like it there."

"You don't?"

"I don't want to talk about it. Miss," Frisk added quickly.

"Okay," Toriel replied. "Well, I will go cook you up some soup; would you like that -?"

I couldn't stand it anymore. I left.

5

Frisk took an insufferable amount of time to leave the house. I couldn't tell exactly how long. But it was long and boring. And then he had the audacity to only come out with Mom. She was taking him to… _train_ in the ruins.

"Welcome to your new home, innocent one," she said, as she guided him by the hand through the general dilapidation. "Today I will educate you in the operation of the ruins."

"Thanks, Ms. Toriel," Frisk said courteously.

It was so _stupid._

She went into this one room with buttons and then pushed all the buttons in the special order and of course Frisk couldn't see it, and then she flips the old switch and the door opened like it's rigged to do and she just says, "The ruins are full of puzzles - Ancient fusions between diversions and doorkeys. One must solve them to move from room to room, like an idiot."

She didn't say "idiot". I added that. Ha ha ha ha.

It's not funny, don't laugh.

"Please adjust yourself to the sight of them," she said. Wow. Nice job, Mom. Frisk should've scowled but he didn't. He just smiled a little. What the heck. Stand up for yourself, Frisk. C'mon.

She did this other thing where Frisk had to flip the switches himself. How brave of him, to do that. Also, she _labeled which ones to flip._ As if he could _see them_.

Toriel had gone soft, and that meant she was dumb. She was worse than Dad, now.

Then she had Frisk go into battle mode with a dummy. I didn't even know that was possible.

"As a human living in the underground, monsters may attack you," she said. "You will need to be prepared for this situation. However, worry not! The process is simple. When you encounter a monster, you may enter a fight. While you are in a fight, strike up a friendly conversation. Stall for time. I will come to resolve the conflict."

Yeah.

I left right about then.

6

There's an ancient inscription near one of the ruins' doors:

 _Only the fearless may proceed._

 _Brave ones, foolish ones._

 _Both walk not the middle road._

It was right where it had always been. I had left off Mom and Frisk to find it again. I thought Frisk might appreciate to hear it as well.

7

When I got back, Mom was spending, like, ten years aching on about how she didn't want to leave Frisk alone and that he needed to stay put like a good little blind boy and blah, blah, blah. And she kept calling him "my child". I hated that. He's not your child. I'm not your child. You only ever had one child.

"I must attend to some business, and you must stay alone for a while," she said, kneeling down and placing a hand on his shoulder. She had that tone in her voice that sounds all concerned but it's just dripping with passive-aggression, bubbling underneath the surface. That's what I hear, anyway. "Please remain here. It's dangerous to explore by yourself."

"Yes, Ms. Toriel."

She scrunched her lips together with apparent concern. "I have an idea," she said finally, her face relaxing. "I will give you a cell phone!"

"A…what? You have those, Ms. Toriel?"

"We do indeed!"

"But, where did you get them -?"

"If you have a need for anything, just call."

Now Frisk was scrunching up his own lips. "Alright. Will do, Ms. Toriel."

She reached into one of her apron pockets, searched around, and finally pulled out a little dinky flip-phone. It had a rainbow sticker on the back of it and was anything but new. Toriel's large hands almost fumbled it as she handed it over to Frisk.

"Be good, alright?" Toriel said as she took way too long to exit the room.

When she was gone, I wandered my way over to Frisk again.

"Heya," I said, spooking him again.

"Where have _you_ been?" he demanded.

"Around. Hey, wanna hear something cool?"

"No! Go away!"

I blew a strand of hair away from my face. "Don't be like that. Listen, it's a neat little mantra thing. It was really important to me -"

He stuck his tongue out and plugged his fingers in his ears.

"Oh yeah," I replied. "Real mature, Frisk."

He didn't answer.

Geez, it made me mad. I just wanted to tell him the mantra. I genuinely wanted to share it, because it was cool, and I knew Frisk would find it cool, he had to find it cool, right? But he was not going to be pushed around; he wanted control of the conversation. He would not let me talk down to him to any degree, and something about that was - well, who _would_ like it? Nobody likes it. Everybody likes to be in control. Toriel especially.

"You're wondering where that phone came from, yeah?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

"I know you can hear me," I said. "You've got crazy good ears."

He wagged his tongue at me.

"Fine! Be like that! You little -" But I bit my tongue and floated off.

8

Reader, have you ever not liked yourself?

As I floated off right then, I really did not like myself.

Frisk felt like a demon to me, at that moment. It was like I was in hell, chained to an unsuspecting tormentor, my punishment to face the reality of my ugly personality, my ugly face, my ugly everything. I was resurrected by someone I could neither push around nor avoid. His presence made me all too aware of what I was. A little cretin, a little demon. I hated it. But no one would ever know. No one could ever know.

Ha ha. It's pretty funny, when you're desperate for a laugh.


End file.
